


The Rule of Two

by Astra_Across_the_Stars



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Rigel Black Series - murkybluematter
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Inspired by The Rigel Black Chronicles, Rigel Black Exchange, Very veeerrry slight RevArc, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:21:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27447799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astra_Across_the_Stars/pseuds/Astra_Across_the_Stars
Summary: Tom Marvolo Riddle. I am Lord Voldemort.Small choices separate wildly different realities, and in life, Tom Riddle has never had to confront them.A series of short scenes examining the relationship and parallels between Tom Riddle and his constructed Lord Voldemort, interweaving the Rigel Black Chronicles and some elements of kitsunerei's Revolutionary Arc.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22
Collections: Rigel Black Exchange Round 2





	The Rule of Two

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mercuryandglass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercuryandglass/gifts).



_1943_

The steadily cooling body of that insufferable Ravenclaw lay mocking him. It was inevitable, he supposed, that killing someone would result in a dead body, but in his months of preparation—wheedling Slughorn, researching Dark Magics—he had never thought through the mechanics and real-world logistics of killing, beyond that he would, of course, have to dispose of the body.

No matter. A quick _Evanesco_ would solve that, once his ritual was complete.

The hidden entrance to the Chamber clanged shut behind him, marble pounding against marble and relegating the queen of serpents to the plumbing and pipes. The boy stood alone in the girl’s lavatory with the corpse.

Pure chance had led this girl here. Pure chance and unfortunate circumstance. It was a shame his planned victim would have to be put on hold (he truly detested that seventh year mudblood—what a waste of magic), but fortune had favoured him with this opportunity, and he would not squander it. He reached into the pockets of his cloak for the diary he held, ever close at hand. His perfect first vessel, prepared, preserved, and already imbued with his goals and ambitions. Salazar’s magics were impressive and almost as much as he could ever dream of. But if he went this one step further, Lord Voldemort could become immortal. He could live _forever_ and shape the world as he saw fit.

He looked down again. The dead eyes stared back at him. He could imagine the light in those eyes slowly seeping away, and with it—

The boy jerked. There was a pain, not in his heart, but beyond it. _It had started_ , he thought. The process of immortality. He could let that pain, that rip, deepen in his soul. But those eyes…

Those _dead_ eyes.

Those eyes showed something _lost_. Something irreparably missing. Something broken.

Broken.

Images flashed behind his eyes. A burning wardrobe full of broken toys. The silence of those two children whose minds never quite felt the same. The dead eyes and broken neck of the rabbit, hanging from the rafters.

 _He couldn’t be like them_.

He would not be another broken thing, another _object_ broken in pursuit of power.

In that moment, when he wished it had not come to this, fire was the only description comparable to the pain he felt. Or maybe acid. Something was _searing_ into his soul. The crack he could feel before was now white-hot and melting. The heat burst from his eyes in flaming tears—the first and last tears the boy could remember. He couldn’t remember falling to the floor, but his hands felt the wet tiles and the cooling hand of the girl as his insides constricted. Her death was avoidable. This pain had been avoidable. His blindness to pride should have been avoidable.

He grasped her cold, dead hand. Her cold, dead, _broken_ body.

He sat, or knelt, on the floor of the girl’s lavatory for a long time. It was night, he knew, though it had been early evening when he had exited the Chamber of Secrets. He had to leave.

Tom Riddle steeled himself against the pain that was slowly settling in his chest. He wondered if it would ever go away. With one final glance at the body, Tom stood, picking up the dreaded diary from where it lay beside her. He couldn’t bear to vanish her corpse now. His soul would not endure that specific cruelty. Stowing the planned Horcrux in his cloak, Tom removed the spells he had placed around the lavatory.

His normally sharp mind drew hesitant plans. While he regretted the girl’s death, there was no way he would dare let himself suffer more consequences for it. It could be an accident, an outside attack, or someone else’s fault entirely. He would give himself the night to regroup and plan.

Tom Riddle walked away.

_Spring 1992_

_I have need of you._

The words broke through the blackness and crumbling despair of time. Young Voldemort’s fraying consciousness, pulling apart at the edges, snapped to attention. He had no true sense of awareness, other than the slim connection to his other self. The self that held his diary. The self whose magic he could _feel_ through the paper pages. His self had a purpose for him. Good. Finally the breathing version of himself recognized, _remembered_ , the consciousness stored in his diary. Finally Lord Voldemort would release his second hand upon the world.

Young Voldemort’s existence had been dark for so long. No breath, no light, no sound. Just him and his thoughts—the fantastic plottings and imaginings of his perfectly preserved intellect. Oh, the plans he had devised for his return. But for now, as he had no form nor body, his consciousness responded.

“What do you need me to do?”

_I have a plan, which requires your assistance. You are the only one I can fully trust to complete it. There is a young girl, a Ginevra Weasley, who is starting her first year of Hogwarts in September. I need you to be her…confidant. Her companion. Her family is firmly entrenched in the Light party, and I will need you to, through the girl, infiltrate the Light party. Lead her along so that once the time is right, we can subdue resistance from both sides and defeat the fool, Dumbledore, once and for all._

That was…unexpected. In his years of thinking and planning, Young Voldemort would never have formed a plan so weak, drawn out, and wasteful. He had held himself together, shreds of magic coalesced through sheer will, for too long to waste the time. For too long to be treated like some inanimate _tool._ But, for now, as he had no form nor body, he responded.

“Of course. I am clearly the only agent capable enough to complete this task. Consider it done.”

_Later_

Lord Riddle closed his old diary and rested against his leather wingback chair. He sat in a study. More of a library, really, with walls and tables covered in books. It was one of the small pleasures Riddle allowed himself, beyond the manipulation of his devoted followers. A room devoted to knowledge, to the epitome of magical achievement, all for himself. Twilight darkened the room, and as Riddle sat back, he was enveloped in shadow.

The exchange had been brief. Their first exchange in years. Riddle had been, not afraid, but somewhat apprehensive about his younger self’s acquiescence to his plan. The diary had seemed…brusque. Brusque yet clearly eager to comply, which was not a combination of traits Riddle entirely trusted. But it was himself, and if there was one being in existence that Riddle trusted, it was himself.

His piece was in place, the long game prepared. Tomorrow, Riddle would pass his diary to Lucius Malfoy, to be slipped to Ginevra Weasley. Lord Riddle could now turn his attentions back to legislation. The Marriage Law would need some adjustments, after the debacle of the sleeping sickness undermined his support in the Wizengamot. The international community would need to be corralled to allowing Hogwarts’ participation in the next Triwizard Tournament. And he would have to keep an eye on Rigel Black. Despite his youth, Black had the instincts of a politician when it suited him.

And his research had finally uncovered more than substantial rumours regarding the Dominion Jewel. If he could get his hands on this fabled gem, he would not have to worry about an opposition. But information had passed from legend to myth, and if this jewel did indeed exist, Lord Riddle would not rest all his plans on its possession. It would be another valuable piece, nothing more.

_Fall 1992_

The girl was mind numbing, if Voldemort had had a mind to numb. There were few things in his life Voldemort was thankful for, but not being an 11-year-old girl was one of them. His older self must be truly insane to think he could live like this for seven years!

_Tom, my brothers are teasing me again. I don’t know why they have to be so mean! I just wanted to **prove** that I could fly just as well as them, but they laughed in my face! Oh Tom, I wish I could talk to you in person…._

Nauseating. This girl was such a waste of pure blood. And from what he could glean, through her miserable ramblings, the wizarding world was as stagnant and misguided as when he had been created. There was no war, no famine, no disease, no change. Nothing. Oh, little Ginny would complain that there was a new broom she couldn’t have, or how members of the SOW party (which, he gathered, was an idiotic acronym devised by his older self to appeal to the pureblood aristocracy…pandering fool) were ‘so unfair to muggleborns and halfbloods.’

Honestly, the drivel he had to listen to just to learn that the only worthwhile change had been banning mudbloods and halfbloods from Hogwarts, well, he preferred not to relive it.

_Tom, I’m so scared. I have tried to not think about it, but since starting at Hogwarts it’s all gotten so much worse. Last year there was this sleeping sickness—everyone could have died! My brother got sick and apparently wouldn’t wake up. But Rigel Black saved him! Ron wrote home that he was okay, and even though the Daily Prophet said Dumbledore was responsible, it was really all Rigel! He can do some really amazing magic. But it could still happen again…nobody knows where the sickness came from and I could be trapped in an enchanted sleep FOREVER!!!!! Tom, I’m only eleven but I don’t want to die…or do whatever it is that happens to the ones who fall asleep. Tom, do you know if there’s anything I can do to protect myself?_

Ah. An opening. This, Lord Voldemort could work with.

“Ginny, Ginny, you don’t have to be afraid.” If he had a body he would vomit. “There are many strategies you can use to defend yourself. Occlumency, the magic of defending your mind from outside attacks, can provide a strong, nuanced approach to keeping your mind safe from, what was it? A sleeping sickness? Let me explain how it works…”

Though he would be reduced to a simple _tutor_ , teaching this girl “occlumency” would be such an easy avenue forward with his plan. This stupid girl would be his unwitting puppet until he gathered enough strength to break free from this paper prison. Whatever plan his addled, older self had devised, well, it was a backup to a backup plan now.

Soon, the Chamber of Secrets would be opened once again. Soon, Lord Voldemort would return.

_Spring 1993_

Rigel Black must die. They will all die. Stupid, WEAK Tom Riddle will die and Voldemort will finally take over the magical world as planned.

His newly acquired snake host slithered through the leaves and underbrush. He could taste the magic of the wards—so close to freedom. He would need another host, but first he needed to escape. He needed to _plan_.

It was humiliating to have been defeated by this upstart, preadolescent, frustrating boy. This _child_. Lord Voldemort had existed for almost 70 years, and he was outwitted by the strange new magic developed by a _twelve-year-old_. He would expect his older self to have been outmaneuvered—clearly “Lord Riddle” had lost touch with the ambition preserved in Lord Voldemort—but that Lord Voldemort himself would be similarly routed?

But Lord Voldemort can be patient. He learned through 50 years of blackness the necessity of patience. Clearly, he had been too hasty with Ginny. His next human host would be older…or maybe he would create his own…

The mind of a snake was not conducive to planning, nor for containing the unbridled magical rage of Lord Voldemort. Its movements faltered, and then ceased. After a few moments, the body of the snake lurched through a mound of dead leaves, like a puppet tugged by uneven strings.

Lord Voldemort slithered on, snake-mind seething.

_Summer 1994_

The Dominion Jewel should have been his! Why do all his servants fail him! First the diary, then worthless Pettigrew—and Severus was not doing much better with recruiting young Mr. Black. If he had that blood and power on his side, Dumbledore’s political resistance would crumble.

And maybe he would finally be able to fix the idiots of his party.

Lord Riddle sat alone in his austere, throne-like room. He watched Malfoy scutter away, over the silk carpets and so close to the candles that the flames quivered. The retreat was not quite as graceful as Lucius probably assumed. As it should be. It would not do for Lucius Malfoy, of all his servants, to be easy and equanimous with his Lord’s defeat. _Not defeat_ , he reminded himself, tearing from the edge of fury, _only a setback_. A hard, painful setback with consequences he could already envision, but not insurmountable.

His carefully built tower of legislation and influence was being knocked down, plank after plank, by _Rigel Black_. Black would need to be dealt with, and it was _fortunate_ an opportunity was readily available. Riddle smiled darkly to himself. He was in final negotiations to rejoin the Triwizard Tournament, and what a wonderful contestant Rigel Black would be. Win or lose, Rigel Black would pay, and Lord Riddle would either gain another playing piece, or finally be rid of an irksome opponent.

_Summer 1995_

Of course. Of course Rigel Black was that insufferable, upstart Potter chit. Where Potter went, chaos followed, and the Triwizard Tournament, broadcast across the globe, was in chaos.

He respected her tenacity, truly the girl was Slytherin to her core, but despite her obvious power and talent, the shambles of his tournament were entirely his own fault. That _diary_! It had escaped, it—he—was a _being_ now. In all the ways he would have been had Riddle created a Horcrux as he had meant to so long ago.

That was a fascinating bit of magic. Had his stored consciousness created a _soul_?? Maybe, once he had dealt with this unpleasantness, he would turn his research to the construction of souls. If he could only get his preserved self to see reason, they could work together. Chaos and death were not the only paths to power—that was such a waste of magical talent.

But now, the immediate aftermath, would require some careful maneuvering. Rigel Black must be discredited. Keeping the focus on the blatant illegality—blood identity theft was no small crime—would give Lord Riddle precious time to locate and, hopefully, reason with his living construct. A few well-placed words to the Daily Prophet, a few hundred galleons carefully _invested_ , would be all that is necessary.

And then he could deal with Voldemort.

_Later_

Lord Voldemort was almost flattered to receive the jet black owl bearing the emerald green seal of Slytherin. Clearly, Riddle recognized his place as the older, inferior model. In the silent struggle for dominance, Riddle blinked. Voldemort lazily shot a jet of green light at the bird and summoned the parchment neatly tied to its leg.

The missive shot through the air, passing boarded up windows and crumbling chairs—all that remained of an ancient hovel.

He broke the seal, but before he read two sentences, the paper burst into flames that soon flickered and died as all the oxygen physically left the room. Lord Voldemort’s eyes turned a dark, menacing red.

It was a _summons!_

Tom Riddle was summoning _Lord Voldemort_ to a meeting, a prettily phrased parlay.

Phantoms of a possible future: old and young Riddles sitting across each other in a hall, a duel of words and clever magics, entreaties to reason met with demands for revolution. Voldemort could picture it.

“Stand down and side with me while we slowly build up power and gain inevitable victory.”

“Cease wasting time with your _politics_ and just _take_ the power!”

They would circle each other with words, neither willing to concede. Lord Voldemort would never concede. Lord Voldemort would not be held back by this weak shadow of a future. And so Tom Riddle must die.

_Summer 1996, or always and currently_

In another life, he thinks, his consciousness drifting away, he could have been happy. In another life, maybe he would have followed a path like Rigel—like Harriet. He could have delved into magical theory and reveled in magic for magic’s sake. In his last few moments of life, he looks back and regrets. His accomplishments and political power would not help him now. He was dead. Fear crept up to his throat, harsh and hot. And then he was gone.

Wizards don’t have a cohesive belief about the afterlife. When Tom awakens, naked and cold in Kings Cross Station, he knows wizards truly had no idea what they were talking about. He looks around and watches ghostly trains pass by.

In another life, only a small fraction of his soul would waken here. In another life, Tom Riddle never left the girl’s lavatory. In another life, he would not have been murdered by a deranged construct of his sixteen-year-old self, and neither Hallows nor Horcruxes would have saved his soul.

But in this death, Tom Riddle is here and whole.

Tom sits in the light and the quiet for either hours or minutes, examining his new reality. He was some semblance of alive—though, of course, dead. _Idiot_ , he thinks. _Death is no excuse for inane thoughts_.

He is dead, and there is very literally no time to waste. No space to inhabit. No limits to his reality. Tom Riddle had never planned for death. He had not thought to plan for an existence beyond the scope of physics. But if he is beyond physics, he may not be beyond magic, the limits of which could be entirely in his mind. No one had ever accused Tom Riddle of lacking creativity. With a thought he is clothed in the fine robes he had worn in life.

While he has access to some sort of magic, in this post-mortal plane, Tom has no _information_. And no choice, it seems, but to go searching for it. He begins to walk.

The station is entirely empty, and the farther Tom walks, the greater the excitement within him grows. There are no limits. No people he has to please. He was dead, and for the first time his death was not frightening. The fear that had clawed at him in life, the ever-present pain that had never fully faded, is steadily replaced with determination. He is dead. The world he knew is gone. Clearly some forces of magic work in this space beyond life, and that is something he can work with.

In this death, Tom Riddle thrives.

_Sometime in the future_

When Lord Voldemort is finally defeated, darkness is the only thing that greets him.


End file.
